


A Pack's Return

by MoonShoesReyes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Am I tagging right?, Post-Season/Series 07, Reunions, STARK SIBLINGS MOTHER FUCKERS, Season 7 Spoilers, Season 8 speculation, Stark Family, Stark Siblings - Freeform, except not bran bran can choke, reunions all up in this bizznatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:11:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonShoesReyes/pseuds/MoonShoesReyes
Summary: Arya Stark has spent years running from who she was. But now, she is back in Winterfell, and Jon is coming home. Arya reunites with people from her past, and finally gets a moment of joy.Formerly A Pack's Reunion.





	1. Arya Stark

            Arya Stark, the little wolf, the girl with ice in her veins, one of the four remaining Starks in the world, a daughter of Winterfell, was cold. To the outside eye, this was to be expected. She was in an isolated corner in the courtyard of Winterfell, the cold steel of Needle in her left hand, the comforting weight of her unnamed dagger at her hip. She wore little in comparison to others around her – just typical breeches, and her well-worn jerkin. The double jacket she so often donned had been abandoned. But she didn’t mind, it had been a long time since the frosts of Winterfell affected her.

            No, this cold was not from the snow that dusted everything around her. This was an unfixable chill that couldn’t be remedied by the exertion of her sparring, moving swiftly, fluidly, silently in the crisp early morning air. This was a biting cold that had been following her for years. It had been there when winter came for House Frey, the deaths, while satisfying, doing little to warm the icy wall in her chest, a wall that could compete with that of Eastwatch. This was a freezing shadow that followed her to the heated shores of Braavos. This was a cold born of sorrow, stemming from the loss of hope that had accompanied the loss of her brother.

            Something had broken in Arya Stark that day at the Twins. Some fundamental part of who she was had been lost, and she felt as though the only thing that connected the then and the now was her list. Her list were of people who had wronged the Starks, and Arya Stark couldn’t truly die until they did. Only when her list was fulfilled, could she truly become No One. But until then, she had to be Arya Stark once more.

            And then she saw Hot Pie, and her world shifted. For once, the gaping, icy hole didn’t feel so bottomless. For once, Arya Stark might have had a family. She had long since abandoned that idea that those not related by blood would be her family. She had learned that lesson the hard way, and she had been punished for her hoping, if not physically, then emotionally.

            She had given up hope on finding a family. But she didn’t need her Stupid Bull to have a family, she had one, and they were waiting for her.

            Jon Snow was the King of the North. He was alive, and he was on the right side of the wall, and he was there. He was _home._ And so, Arya made her choice. She chose to live, and to fight for her family. Because they were all she had, and she had already lost too much.

            And then she had seen Sansa. And the cold continued to fade. Her sister, who had preened and pampered herself. Her sister, who had been obsessed with the culture that housed their would-be executioners. But gone was the girl who had dreamt of being a princess. Her sister no longer yearned for a white knight to save her, she had long since abandoned the naïve notion that anyone would come to save her. So, she saved herself. She became her own savior. Unlike Arya, her weapons weren’t steel and violence, she wielded words and manipulations, just as effectively. And they had growing pains, and they didn’t trust easily. But they came through united. And now the Stark daughters were a formidable pair, who anyone would be a fool to oppose.

            But with the changes in her sister, Arya realized that the Jon who was due to return with the foreign Dragon Queen might not be the brother she remembered. She knew she certainly wasn’t the sister he remembered, running around Winterfell, a big helmet on her head and even bigger talk of being a knight. She was no knight. She was something worse, something fiercer. Something that may be unrecognizable to her oldest and closest brother. And so, she distracted herself. The nerves that had been building since she heard of his impending return had reached new heights this morning, as their reunion loomed over her. By that evening, he would know her, and know that the sister he knew and loved had died with her father at the Sept. At the Twins with her mother and brother and unborn niece or nephew. With a stupid boy as he had chosen to leave her, and then had been sold against his will.

            So, she practiced. She had already gone through two practice dummies since she had arrived at the courtyard that morning. She worked herself, going through routines taught to her by Syrio Forel, by the Hound, by Jaqen H’ghar. Two mentors dead, the other, well, he was No One, and was likely to never be seen again. She combined all of the skills she had acquired, orchestrating her own secret dance that no one else knew the moves to. She created new strikes and parries, new ways to defend herself and cut down her enemies. And as she built and danced and fought, the chill clung to her, an ever-looming presence in the back of her mind, slowly healing, but in no way gone. She felt as people came and left, she noticed Sansa’s brief observation of her. She was aware of Brienne and Podrick sparring besides her, before they too left to accomplish the day’s tasks. But she didn’t stop moving for hours, until she knew her body was close to giving up on her, and she knew that, without water, she would soon fall unconscious. When she looked to the sun above her, she realized that it had passed midday without her noticing. She had been sparring for near 5 hours, with only a short break to relieve herself and drink some water.

            Returning Needle to its scabbard, Arya turned to her cask of water. Taking a seat near the wall of Winterfell, where she knew she couldn’t be seen by anyone unless they were looking, Arya watched and studied those around her. She allowed her head to fall back until it rested on the stones, stones that were older than she was. No matter her age, no matter how disconnected she felt, she never ceased to be humbled by Winterfell. To know that her family had walked these walls before her, that her father perhaps sat here as well, was a feeling she had yet to fully comprehend. She was so small, in the scheme of things. Generations of Starks had lived here, had fought for Winterfell, for her and her family to be able to rest their heads on the stones. It was the least she could do to keep protecting it.

            It felt odd, fighting for something other than revenge.

            And then horns sounded, and a cry echoed throughout those ancient walls. A cry she had never heard before, but she had dreamt of. It was the cry of a dragon.

            Forcing herself to take her time, Arya shifted to her feet, so she was squatting. Removing her gloves, she washed her hands, having the melting snow leave them clean, as she had seen her father do countless times before. She brought some snow to her face, truly awakening her mind and clearing her skin of sweat and dirt. She knew not who accompanied her brother in his return, but she had to be ready for anything. She might not see as much as her younger brother these days, but she still saw more than most, and she had to use that ability to protect her pack.

            She crossed the practice yard to where her jacket had been discarded in a heap. She slowly buttoned up the top, and then checked to make sure Needle and her dagger were in place. Uncharacteristically nervous, Arya ran her still damp hands over her hair, before putting her gloves back on.

            Taking a deep breath, she sharply turned, and promptly headed towards the main gate, where her family waited.

            The yard by the gates were already crowded by the time of her arrival. She could see Sansa’s telltale red hair at the front of the retinue. Next to her sat Bran, his chair being manned by the round figure of Samwell Tarly. She could see Sansa searching the crowds. Arya’s sister maintained the perfect façade of the calm and collected Lady Stark, but Arya knew Sansa searched for her. Yet Arya clung to the edges of the crowd, staying mostly unseen for the time being. The sisters’ eyes met as the gates began to open, and Sansa barely had the time to furrow her eyebrows in confusion before she turned to adopt the part she was born to play.

            Arya knew where he was. She could see, in abstract, the figure that sat next to the silver haired queen, however she refused to allow herself the distraction. Instead, she scanned those that accompanied them. Unfortunately, many in the party were hidden, still not having made it through the gates yet. She noted an older man, next to where her brother sat. He was likely Ser Davos – Sansa had told her of his loyalty to Jon, he was safe. The imp, Tyrion Lannister, sat to the Dragon Queen’s left. She hadn’t seen him since the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s had first come to Winterfell. She knew that he had declared for House Targaryen. She recalled what Sansa had told her of his behavior. How Sansa claimed he had acted with kindness. Arya refused to mistake kindness with basic human decency, however Sansa held a level of respect for him, and Arya trusted her sister. So, the imp was safe, at least for now. Next to the Imp sat a tall man, with eyes that were strikingly similar to those of Lyanna Mormont’s. The way he kept glancing at the Queen indicated he was extremely dedicated to her. Arya surmised that he was probably in love. She guessed he would likely lay down his life for the Queen. That could be dangerous. He, too, would have to be watched. Next to the man in love with the Queen there was a young woman with skin darker than the rest. She had beautifully wild hair, and she sat with an unnaturally straight back. Arya had seen that type of discipline before, in the higher-class slaves in Braavos. Which made sense when paired with the man sitting next to her. He had skin color similar to the woman, and his faced showed nothing of his emotions. He sat grim, somber, and focused, eyes scanning the crowd at Winterfell, similar to Arya. Based on the shaved head and the uniform, Arya deduced that this was a member of the Unsullied. She had heard word of the Targaryen Queen freeing the Unsullied when she was in Braavos, and had heard of the Unsullied at length prior to that. The Queen had an interesting combination for her army. Arya wondered how the silent solemnity of the Unsullied would work with the barbaric fervor of the Dothraki, who she could hear in the distance.

            Arya eyed the Dragon Queen, as she stood a few steps behind where Arya knew Jon was. Who was this ruler that freed nations, befriended such a wide variety of people, and united two of the most powerful armies on the Southern Continent.

            The crowd shifted. Arya’s attention was focused close enough to her brother, that her discipline immediately faltered, and her eyes found Jon’s dark curly hair. One of his hands was still rested on Bran’s shoulder, but Jon was now hugging Sansa. A private, worried embrace, something unlike what Arya had ever seen from them. She knew Sansa’s opinions on Jon had changed, but she hadn’t known how close they had grown. It seems that her siblings weren’t the only thing that changed, apparently their relationships changed, too.

            Jon stepped back from Sansa, but only slightly. They remained in hushed conversation, speaking at tones which Arya couldn’t quite hear, but she could confidently guess what was being said. As if to prove her suspicion, Sansa pivoted, no longer obstructing the line of sight between Arya and Jon. Jon’s eyes quickly shifted towards where Sansa motioned, and Arya stopped breathing for a moment. She could see Jon release one, ragged breath, and falter a moment, taking a half step back. Arya felt her spine straighten.

            Appearance wise, he hadn’t changed. His face was more weathered, there were a few new scars. He wore his hair how their father used to, except in a knot as opposed to loose. She couldn't help but notice that he looked so, so tired. For a moment, Arya filled with an ice cold anger at this responsibility that was thrust upon him.

            She hardly noticed that the crowd had parted between them, leaving room for them to greet each other. Arya struggled to school her features into the composed face of No One. She had to consciously refrain from sprinting to her brother. Instead, with a calm that in no way matched the tempest roaring inside her, she began her slow walk towards Jon. She knew that it had only been a few seconds, but it felt like they have been walking to each other for an hour. When they stood about ten feet away from each other, she heard Jon breathe her name. No one had ever quite said her name like her brother did, almost like there was no ‘r.’ And that, for some reason, broke her resolve. Any restraint she had shattered because, when her brother said her name, it hit her that he was actually there, and she was really home. All of sudden, she was thirteen years old again, and her favorite brother, the only person who ever truly understood her was leaving for the Wall, and she might not ever see him again. It took all she had not to cry out as she ran to him, jumping and throwing her arms around his neck like she used to. He didn't react right away, but after a moment, she could hear him say her name again, stronger this time, and he wrapped his arms around her. Her feet still hung in the air, like they did when she was a young girl. In that moment, No One is gone, and Arya Stark was truly home.

            Jon was actually there. And he was real.

            “I can’t believe you’re alive.” He said, his voice as gravelly as ever. He put her down, but his gloved hands remain cradling her face, as if he thought that the moment he stopped touching her, she’d disappear.

            “I can’t believe I’m alive either.” She muttered in response, a small smile on her face. But it was genuine. One of the few genuine smiles she has had in years. “I’d say I can’t believe you’re alive, but if what Sansa tells me is true, you weren’t, for a while.” Her smile remained, but it’s more forced, now.

            “Aye. A lot has happened when we were apart.” Jon said, still with joy in his eyes, but grimmer.

            Arya nodded, shifting so that Sansa could be a part of the moment, “to all of us.”

            Sansa stepped forward, joining her siblings. “Let’s do our best to stay together from now on, alright?”

            Jon chuckled, “I’ll do my best.”

            Sansa squared her gaze on Arya, expecting an answer to her rhetorical question. Arya wouldn't make promises. She still had a list. “I’ll try,” she stated, simply.

            Jon stared at Arya a moment longer, as though assuring himself that she was real, before turning to Sansa and asking about the state of Winterfell, and how preparations were coming along.

            Years ago, she might have been embarrassed about her emotional show in front of so many people. But the people of Winterfell had heard of her encounter with Littlefinger, and knew what she was capable of. And the members of the Queen’s party, well, she owed them nothing. They would learn of her abilities soon enough.

            Movement behind Jon distracted Arya from her thoughts, and when she found the source, she froze.

            Unlike with Jon, she regained her composure quickly. Locking her fingers behind her back, Arya crossed to where The Hound was helping with the horses.

            He looked up when she reached him, and didn't look happy or angry or scared. Just disgruntled.

            “So,” he began, “You lived.”

            “Aye. As did you.” Arya replied, unimpressed.

            “Despite my best efforts. You gonna change that, Little Wolf?”

            The nickname didn’t spark the anger in her that it used to.

            “Don’t worry, Hound. Once a name is off the list, it’s off for good.”

            “Wonderful, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

            Arya smiled wickedly, “I wouldn’t go that far. Courtyard. Tomorrow. Sunrise. I want to hear the story of how you lived. And how you met my brother. And then we spar, because you might not be on the list anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to beat you.”

            “Yea, alright. If we are going to be talking so much, we should probably fight after. We need to keep something normal,” The Hound looked to be angry that he had such a reaction to Arya. Before she could comment on it, his eyes focused on something behind her, and he said “Hey, Little Wolf. Go easy on him.”

            Arya’s brows knitted in confusion. But before she could ask what The Hound meant, someone else said her name, or a version of it she hadn't heard in years, and her blood ran cold.

            She stiffened. She didn't want to look. If she didn't look, she could pretend that it was him, and he was alive, and he was there. Or she could pretend he wasn't there, and she wouldn't have to face the buried emotions that accompany their relationship. She couldn't decide which she'd prefer.

            He didn't give her a choice. “'Arry?” She heard again, still behind her, but closer now. He was nervous, she realized. Good, the dark part of her thought.

            “Oh, for fucks sake.” The Hound sounded exasperated. He grabbed Arya’s shoulders, and before she could even protest, he flipped her around. Any other day, and he would have had a broken hand.

            His hair was shorter. And he looked bigger. The anxiety was painted on his face – he had never been good at hiding his emotions. Her training had her noting the hammer strapped to his belt. His father’s weapon. So, he had acknowledged what she surmised all those years ago, that his father was Robert Baratheon – that’s new.

            “Gendry.”

            Something in his face collapsed when she said his name. He released a breath that it seemed he had been holding ages.

            Slowly, she walked up to him. “'Arry –” he started, but before he could finish she wound her arms around him, head buried in his chest. His arms hovered above her for a moment, before he wrapped them around her, tighter than he ever had before. “'Arry –," he tried again.

            Arya cut him off, pulling back to look at him. “Arya. It’s Arya Stark. I don’t have to hide who I am now, and I don’t intend to do so again, not with my family.”

            His hand found the back of her head, cradling it, as he pulled her back into his arms. “You’ll always be Arry to me.” He took a shuddering breath, “I am so so—”

            “Shut up, you Stupid Bull. I don’t want to hear it. I am so mad at you, so you don’t get to talk, at least not yet.”

            She could feel him smile against her head, “as m’Lady commands.”

            “Don’t call me m’Lady,” she exclaimed, reflexively, reeling her head back to glare at him.

            “Would you prefer Princess?” He jested.

            “Gendry Waters, I already want to throttle you, don’t make me want to cut you open—”

            “Arya!” She heard Jon cry, but she ignored him.

            “I am Arya Stark. I am not a lady. I am not a princess. I am a fighter, and I am your equal. So, stop with all of that m’Lady business, Gendry Waters.”

            “Baratheon.” Was all he said.

            “Excuse me?” Arya whipped her head towards the Dragon Queen, then back to Gendry. If the young Targaryen knew Gendry was Robert’s son, who knew how she would react.

            “Baratheon. It’s Gendry Baratheon. Jon knows, and the Queen knows. I don’t care who my father was. I don’t want the throne. And I don’t care about who your father was, other than him being a good man. It doesn’t matter our family name. You’ll always be m’Lady.” The intensity of his gaze made Arya want to squirm, and she likely would have if it weren’t for her time with the Faceless Men.

            Arya searched his eyes for something indistinguishable. Eventually, she sighed and hugged him once more, calling him “stupid bull,” with her cheek against his chest. She felt the reverberations of his chuckles.

            The moment was interrupted by Jon, asking “Gendry, we spent all that time across the wall and you failed to mention you knew Arya?”

            “You went behind the wall? Do you know how dangerous that is, Stupid?” Arya slapped his arm before Gendry had a chance to answer.

            “I was protecting your brother!” Gendry defended himself, before turning to Jon. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure your sister would have wanted to talk about me, much less talk to me. We traveled together for a while, before her time with the Hound.”

            “It seems we have more to catch up on than I thought.” Jon said, eyeing Arya curiously.

            “Wait until she tells you about Braavos. And the House of the Black and White. And don’t ask about the pies.” Sansa added, giving Arya a knowing smile. Arya glared in return.

            Despite this, Arya couldn’t help the smile on her face. For the first time in almost seven years, Arya was surrounded by family. A foreign warmth began spreading over her body. Arya realized that she might have forgotten what it was to be happy. For once her mind wasn’t caught on those she had lost, but turned towards what she still had. She had her sister, her brothers, _Gendry._ She had a family.

            “I’m sorry,” an unfamiliar voice chimed in. Jon shifted so the Dragon Queen could join the little circle they had formed. “You spent time in Braavos? I don’t think we have officially met. I’m Daenerys Targaryen – but I’m sure you know that. At some point I’d love to talk about your time in Braavos.”

            Arya observed her warily, before nodding. She didn’t know what the Dragon Queen would want to talk to her for, but something in her look made Arya think it would be quite the interesting conversation.

            “Unfortunately,” the vacant voice of Bran disrupted the reunion, “we don’t have time for that. The Wall has fallen. Jon, Sam and I need to talk to you now. The Night King is coming, and he is coming on a dragon.”


	2. Jon Snow

            Not for the first time, Jon Snow found himself feeling ill-prepared. His fingers tightened uncomfortably on the reins of his horse. Each uncomfortable bump brought him closer to his home, to Winterfell. But that did little to settle his unease. Despite the troves of dragon glass, the armies of the North, and the combined power of the Dothraki, the Unsullied, two dragons, and Cersei’s forces, there were still too many variables.  But, if he were being honest, that wasn’t what worried him. No, his mind was not focused so far up North, instead being caught in the halls of Winterfell, and in a small room on a boat.

            Daenerys was enigmatic, to say the least. She was a woman flooded with contradictions. A fierce, unrelenting queen, willing to burn alive those she deemed traitorous, who possessed an unparalleled kindness. A young and proud monarch with the ability to go toe to toe with rulers who had experience far beyond her own, who was the most in touch with the common people. Light skin and hair, the color of which oft reminded Jon of freshly fallen snow, that hid the fire burning under her skin.

            She was incredible. And Jon felt the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he had only felt once before – with Ygritte. If he wasn’t careful, his affections would become more serious. There were a myriad of reasons why he shouldn’t fall in love with Daenerys. His alliance with her already ran the risk of the Northern Lords losing faith in him. From what he could gather from Sansa’s correspondence, they were already showing signs of devotion to her. Which, if he were being honest, Jon understood. Sansa continued to surprise him with her political acumen. Gone was the hot-headed romantic who he grew up with, replaced with a cool and collected young woman, perfectly capable of leading the North, if something were to happen to him.

            Not that Jon blamed her for the behavior she displayed in her youth. The example Lady Stark had set made it easy for Jon to be hated by his family. Not to mention the fact that he was the living representation of the one blemish on their father’s otherwise honorable life. Jon just counted himself lucky that he had the love of as many Starks as he did.

            There lay another issue with his dalliance with Dany. Despite his role as King of the North, despite the trust and respect instilled in him, Jon would always be the bastard of Winterfell, at least in the dark recesses of his own mind. It remained difficult for Jon to see himself as a man worthy of a queen, particularly a queen such as Daenerys Targaryen, with her endless names and accomplishments. Who was he, in comparison? Just Jon Snow.

            That night with the queen had been unlike the very few he had experienced before. Jon would be the first to admit that he wasn’t particularly well-versed when it came to women. Despite being raised with sisters, and his brief love of Ygritte, he had no real experience. Not for the first time since becoming king, Jon wished his brother were with him. Robb had always been able to listen to his heart, and decipher what a woman’s desires were. Not to mention, his advice that was often accompanied by a jesting smile always put Jon at ease.

            Jon missed his brothers. He missed his father. He missed his time at Winterfell, before the war, and before the Wall. There were few nights when he shut his eyes, when he would not wake to the image of Rickon, falling in the snow in front of him, Ygritte, dying in his arms, Uncle Benjen, sacrificing his own life for Jon’s, his brothers’ knives being slid between his ribs. And then there were the images he hadn’t actually seen, but his mind had done a successful job of creating. In his mind’s eye he saw his father’s head, being separated from his body; he could all but hear the Rains of Castamere as his brother was murdered mercilessly along with his wife and unborn child; he saw the lifeless bodies of two young boys, believed to have been Bran and Rickon, swinging in the wind, Sansa being tortured and beaten time and again, with no one to help her. Why had he survived while his family suffered? What had he done to deserve this chance to lead? Robb was a better king than Jon.

            But Robb wasn’t here. Father, and Rickon, and Benjen, and Ygritte, none of them were there to lead, or to help. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in this self-pity and doubt any longer; he had stepped up because the North had needed him to, all of Westeros had needed him to. And now, there were more important issues and joys at hand.

            Arya was home.

            His grip loosened, and he could feel the corners of his mouth lift in a small, unintentional smile.

            At a glance to his left, he saw Davos with furrowed brows. Jon wasn’t surprised – it was a rarity to see him smile. He didn’t dwell on it, instead digging his heels into his horse to go faster. Not so fast as to lose the party he travelled with, but just enough to put his nerves and excitement at ease.

            Because Arya was home. He thought of Arya often during the past six years. His sister. The only sister who didn’t feel like it was conditional, like there was an asterisk by the word. Arya, too, felt like an outcast in Winterfell. An oddity amongst a sea of normality, much like him, and Jon couldn’t wait to see his youngest sister. When they last had seen each other, Arya was still sorting through the division between who she was and who the world wanted her to be. She had known exactly who she was from a young age, but the expectations of their society hadn’t allowed her to become that. He was thrilled to see the incredible young woman she had no doubt grown into. And yet the anxiety mixed with the anticipation. Sansa’s note had said little about where she had been, only that she was home, and she was different. How different was different? Jon had changed as well, as had Sansa. But they were still themselves, their core persons remained the same. What change was so big that Sansa believed it warranted warning?

            Shaking his head lightly, Jon took his head out of his thoughts. Looking to his right, he saw where Daenerys was sitting on her horse, back straight, head held high. He allowed himself a moment to admire her, not just her beauty, which was formidable in and of itself, but the strength that she exuded. You need not know her to know that she was a force to be reckoned with. Arya would like her, that was a definite.

            But Jon could also see something else in Dany’s posture. Her knuckles were whiter than usual, from the grip she had on the reins, her back was a little too straight, her chin a little too lifted. She was nervous.

            Jon smiled, slightly. The queen who had fought the Lannister army with just one dragon, who faced the forces of the undead, was nervous at the prospect of meeting the North.

            “We’re almost there, Your Grace.” He said, mostly to take her mind off of the thoughts that were torturing it.

            She looked at him, relaxing slightly. When their eyes met, an unspoken understanding passed between the two. Jon could feel his face softening, as he smiled again. Daenerys returned the grin, and Jon felt his spirits lift.

            “You miss it.” She stated, not in question.

            “Aye, every day.” He answered, truthfully.

            “I never had a home like that. A home that I missed every day. There was no place I wished I could be. I am keen to see yours.” As usual, her eyes spoke more than her words.

            “I am eager to share it with you.” As the words left his mouth, he noticed the grounds that he had walked so often when he was young. As they crested the hill, Jon brought their horses to a halt. “Wonderful timing, really. Welcome to Winterfell, Your Majesty.”

            The queen was silent as she took in the expanse of his home. He, too, absorbed the state of Winterfell. He knew she was noting the burnt walls, and the stout castle, nowhere near as grand as Dragonstone or King’s Landing. But what it lacked in grandeur, it made up in character. Winterfell was the people who called it home. It was a strong and warm fortress. It was home.

            After a moment longer, Jon had his horse continue on, and he heard Davos and Daenerys and the rest following.

            Winterfell waited.

 

            Jon’s impatience turned to solemnity and nerves as he reached the gates of Winterfell. They stopped only for a moment, before the gates began to open.

            Jon led the way, Ser Davos on his left, Dany on his right. Tyrion sat next to her, then Ser Jorah, Missandei, and Grey Worm.

            The area by the Main Gate was crowded. The people of Winterfell wanted to see him, he realized. It was also likely that they had heard Dany’s dragons overhead; they weren’t exactly subtle. But, now, the people’s attention was turned towards their Mother. Dany sat, her back unnaturally straight, head held high, as she took in the crowds. Jorah looked as though he were deeply uncomfortable, and continued to glance towards Lyanna Mormont. Tyrion appeared sheepish, likely recalling his last visit to Winterfell.

            But Jon cared for none of that.

            In front of the crowd, he could see his sister’s fiery hair. Jon could not help but be proud at the cool look on her face, despite the lack of warning and communication between the two. Sansa was every bit the Lady she had dreamt of being when she was younger. Her mother would have been proud. His eyes shifted to his sister’s left, and his heart stopped a moment. Bran. His only blood brother left, sat in his chair with a vacant expression. And, shockingly, that chair was being driven by his other brother, one of the few he still counted as a brother, from the wall. Jon knew not what Sam was doing in Winterfell, but that didn’t lessen his elation.

            But, for every familiar face, there was an absence. Most notably, Littlefinger, who had acted as Sansa’s shadow for as long as they had been in Winterfell, was nowhere to be seen, and that was troubling. But, again, Jon disregarded that. Because he couldn’t find Arya with his other siblings, nor among the crowd.

            Dismounting from his horse, Jon swiftly crossed to his family. He went to Bran, first, engulfing the boy with a hug. He was so much larger than the last time they were together. Despite the fervor of Jon’s grasp, Bran barely reacted, only lifting his arm slightly. When Jon pulled away, he kept his hand on Bran’s shoulder, and their eye contact connected. Jon could find nothing of his brother in that empty gaze. Never removing his hand from Bran’s shoulder, Jon turned to his sister. Sansa smiled, warmly, and they met in a hug. He was grateful for his sister. He didn’t think he would ever stop being grateful for her. Jon was wholly aware that she was the one who won back Winterfell. She was the one that found him, and gave Bran and Arya a home to return to.

            After a few moments, Jon took a small step back, and asked what he had been wanting to: “where is she?”

            Sansa smiled, understanding immediately. She turned, and gestured towards the wall behind the crowd.

            His eyes jumped directly over her, at first. She seemed to almost blend into the background. But he corrected that almost immediately, and faltered. She stiffened when their eyes met, and he took a sharp, uncontrolled breath, as he stared at his closest sister, closest sibling, even.

            If he hadn’t known her so well, he might not have recognized her. Her eyes remained the steely grey they’d always been, and she was still small in stature, but she carried herself differently. Gone was the small, young girl, so eager to join whatever trouble he and Robb had gotten into. Her face was almost passive, betraying no emotion, as she began to walk towards him. He hardly noticed that he started to move as well.

            Even her walk was different, she moved with a preternatural stillness, as though each step and twitch was intentional.

            What had happened to her to cause such a drastic shift? He didn’t know why they moved so slowly. It felt eternal, this walk to each other.

            “Arya,” he breathed, feeling as though he needed assurance that she was truly there, and not some cruel dream.

            Something in her face crumpled when she heard him. Stopping for a fraction of a second, Arya then proceeded to run towards him. Throwing her arms around him, Arya buried her face in Jon’s neck, much like she would when they were young.

            For a moment, Jon was frozen. He couldn’t process that this was truly happening. What had he done to deserve this? For a moment, it was all too much. And then his senses came rushing back to him, and he muttered his sister’s name again, as he wraps his arms around her.

            They stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time. It could have been seconds or hours, he didn’t know, nor did he care.

            “I can’t believe you’re alive,” Jon finally said as he reluctantly put her down. Even then, he moved his hands to her face, so he was holding her cheeks. His eyes remained glued to hers, drinking in every detail that had changed, in order to make up for lost time.

            “I can’t believe I’m alive, either.” Her voice was flatter now than before, nowhere near as colorless as Bran’s, but undeniably more weary than the excited lilt it had before. But he only focused on that briefly, before Arya smiled, and he couldn’t help but return it. “I’d say I can’t believe you’re alive, but if what Sansa tells me is true, you weren’t for a while,” she continued.

            The grin on his face dropped, but the mention of his short demise did little to dampen his joy, “Aye. A lot happened when we were apart.”

            And then Jon _knew_ that Arya had changed, because she moved so that Sansa could join the two of them, before saying “to all of us.”

            Sansa stepped forward, still smiling at the reunion between Jon and Arya. “Let’s do our best to stay together from now on, alright?”

            Jon had no intentions to do otherwise, excluding, perhaps, for battle. But still, he had no problem with answering “I’ll do my best.”

            He turned to Arya, expecting quick agreement, but instead found something distant in her eyes. At a glare from Sansa, Arya relented, answering “I’ll try,” with a shrug.

            Jon allowed himself an extra moment to attempt to decipher the look in Arya’s eye, before he turned towards Sansa, asking after the dragon glass shipment. He noticed Arya as she stepped away, but remained focused on Sansa.

            Jon was halfway through his question regarding preparation for forging the dragon glass, when he was reminded of his earlier query.

            “Sansa, where is Littlefinger?”

            Her eyes darted away from his own for a moment.

            “Sansa, where is he?”

            Taking a breath, Sansa leveled her gaze on him, straightening her shoulders. “Dead. By my orders and Arya’s blade.”

            Jon took a moment to process that. “By Arya’s blade? You let our little sister kill a man?”

            “I rest assured that she has killed many more than just Littlefinger. But that is something you need to talk to her about.” Sansa’s eyes left his own, and found their sister.

            She was talking to the Hound. “How do they know each other?” Jon asked.

            “If what Brienne informed me is correct, they traveled together for a time. She thought him dead.”

            Jon watched as the Hound’s eyes found Gendry behind Arya. The Hound said something, something that confused Arya, before Gendry said “‘Arry?” and Arya stiffened.

            For the first time since he had seen her, Arya looked scared. Gendry kept approaching her, and repeated the name.

            Jon asked Sansa, “‘Arry?”

            “It’s what she went by when she traveled as a boy. She told me about her friends, Lommy and Hot Pie, but Lommy is dead and he certainly doesn’t match Hot Pie’s descriptions.”

            “That’s Gendry, Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

            Sansa’s eyes widened comically, “they missed a bastard?”

            “Aye. Father apparently got him out of King’s Landing before they were all slaughtered.”

            “So they must have met when escaping. I wonder why she never mentioned –”

            Sansa was cut off by Arya loudly threatening to cut Gendry open.

            “Arya!” Jon shouted, incredulous. Arya ignored him. These people were their guests. What had Gendry done to warrant such a mixed reaction?  

            Jon was silenced by a shockingly intimate interaction. His youngest sister’s eyes seemed inexplicably drawn to Gendry’s, and Gendry was speaking, passion burning in his eyes. Their eyes remained connected for a few moments after Gendry finished speaking, but Arya quickly buried her head in his chest, saying something too quietly for Jon to hear, but making Gendry chuckle.

            Uncomfortable with this show of affection for his sister, Jon took the opportunity to step in. He stared Gendry down, and stiffly said “Gendry, we spent all that time across the wall, and you failed to mention you knew Arya?”

            Arya’s hair whipped around her as she turned on Gendry, “You went behind the wall? Do you know how dangerous that is, Stupid?”

            Gendry likely made a good choice addressing Arya first, saying “I was protecting your brother!” Before he turned to Jon. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure your sister would have wanted to talk about me, much less talk to me. We traveled together for a while, before her time with the Hound.”

            Which was something else he was curious about. He turned to Arya, “It seems we have more to catch up on than I thought.”

            Sansa chose that moment to join the conversation, “Wait until she tells you about Braavos. And the House of the Black and White. And don’t ask about the pies.”

            Arya fixed Sansa with a glare that had Jon questioning whether or not he wanted to know what she meant by the pies. He knew Arya would have had to have been on quite the adventure, for lack of a better word, these past years, but the expanse of it was far greater than he thought. And it seemed as though everyone knew more about her than he did, Gendry, Sansa, even the Hound. Jon wished that they would actually have time to remedy that, instead of answering the call to war.

            “I’m sorry,” Dany added. Jon immediately felt ashamed – he had completely forgotten about his guest. But she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed more interested in his youngest sister than in him at the moment. “You spent time in Braavos? I don’t think we have officially met. I’m Daenerys Targaryen – but I’m sure you know that. At some point I’d love to talk about your time in Braavos.”

            Arya seemed wary of the kindness of Daenerys, not the Jon could blame her. He had felt the same way initially. Nonetheless, she nodded in agreement.

            “Unfortunately,” the vacant voice of Bran disrupted the reunion, “we don’t have time for that. The Wall has fallen. Jon, Sam and I need to talk to you now. The Night King is coming, and he is coming on a dragon.”

 


	3. Gendry Waters (Baratheon)

            Gendry Waters felt, ironically, that he was drowning in waters with a surface that was thousands of leagues above his head. In the past few weeks, he had often thought how he had come to be here, among this company. He was with Dothraki, Unsullied, Wildlings, Kings of the North, and a Dragon Queen. Not to mention her two dragons. A large part of Gendry yearned for the warmth of his smithy in the south. He longed for the familiarity and comfort. He longed for the safety.

            It was interesting, he felt safest where he was in the most danger. He bore no misconceptions that Cersei would kill him without question if she knew his father’s name. But still, in his forge in King’s Landing, he was safe. No risk of Red Women taking him for his blood, or of hurting Little Wolves.

            Which was the true crux of the desire for safety. It hurt more than he had let on when he had left Arya Stark. But he had known what she hadn’t, that there was no world where they could continue on like they had. It mattered not how understanding her brother was, Robb would still expect her to represent the house, and it wouldn’t look good for House Stark for the youngest daughter to be friends with a Bastard Smith.

            It had hurt more than he thought imaginable when he heard of her death at the Twins. As hard as he might try, Gendry saw no way that she would have made it out alive, so he extinguished the naïve hope. No point in getting his hopes up just to have them crushed. So Arya Stark, for all intents and purposes, was dead.

            At least she had been, until he overheard the King talking with his ginger Wildling friend, Tormund, during their mission North. Jon had confided in Tormund about the brother and sister he had believed dead who were waiting for him back at his home, at Winterfell. Gendry had frozen. More so than he already had this far North of the Wall. He had composed himself quickly, his falter going unnoticed by all except the Hound. Sandor Clegane had seen his moment of weakness, because he too had overheard the news about Arya. Gendry knew not where the man stood in terms of the youngest Stark daughter, but based on the uncharacteristically soft look in his eye, something had changed since they had parted ways.

            Sandor and Gendry caught each other’s eye, making a silent, unspoken agreement that their histories with Arya would remain between them. They had both let her down, and neither knew what would come from their reunion.

            Rolling his eyes, The Hound grunted and picked up his pace. He had moved on from the news of Arya, instead focusing on the insane task that they had at hand.

            Gendry hadn’t been so lucky. Since then, his thoughts had been plagued with the worst possible scenarios of their fast approaching reunion. He pictured her hitting him, yelling at him, killing him – the most painful being the scenario in which she didn’t care at all. Gendry wouldn’t allow himself to fathom the other end of the spectrum, the situation in which Arya was _happy_ to see him. He, once again, knew that the pain of getting his hopes up only to have them crushed would outweigh all else.

            Thoughts of Arya Stark hadn’t been all consuming in the four years since their last meeting. No, Gendry had been able to cobble together something resembling a life, and had been able let go of the vexing wolf girl he had known. But, no matter where his life took him, how far he had moved from her, the regret remained. Her memory hadn’t been all consuming because she had just been a given part of his life. He knew he couldn’t have saved her at the Twins, but he couldn’t help think that she at least wouldn’t have died alone. He could have helped her face the deaths of her family before she faced her own. He had thought that she would be something he would carry with him for the rest of his life, an eternally unanswered question.

            But he was about to get an answer.

            Gendry figured they must be getting close to Winterfell now. He thought it likely they would arrive within the hour, based on the words of those around him, and the ever thickening snow as they continued to move North.

            Looking behind him, Gendry saw the Hound a few paces back. He slowed his horse to match the pace of the only other man who might share his apprehension. The Hound eyed him wearily for a moment, but said nothing. The two of them rode in silence for a few minutes, before Gendry finally spoke.

            “When was the last time you saw her?”

            The Hound once again stared at him, judging, before he spoke. “Maybe a year after you got sold to the Red Woman. I wanted to sell her to her brother at the Twins. Obviously, that went to shit. So, I thought I’d sell her to her Aunt. Turned out she was dead too. That girl has the worst luck. Whole house does, really. She thought it hilarious, the fact that I couldn’t find a damned soul to ransom her to.”

            Gendry filled with ice. What a horrible escape of a horrible circumstance. “And when you parted ways?”

            “The big lady, Brienne of Tarth, found us. It was an accident she did, really. But I guess she swore an oath to Catelyn Stark to take care of her girls. We fought. I lost. She left me for dead on some damned hillside. Arya could’ve finished the job. I asked her to. But I guess she had taken me off of her damned list. She left me bleeding out, and I haven’t seen her since.”

            “Has her list grown? Or shrunk?” Gendry couldn’t suppress the morbid curiosity.

            “Yea, well, she took me off at some point. She killed Polliver. She added the Red Woman, Thoros, and Beric. She added Walder Frey, after the Twins. I suppose she has taken off him off now, given what happened.”

            “Right. His whole house, dead.” Gendry couldn’t unpack the inclusion of those who had sold and bought him right then. It would lead to an uncontrollable and unwanted spiral of thoughts. But, as for Walder Frey, Gendry had a dark, brutal suspicion. “You don’t think…”

            “That the Little Wolf got revenge for the deaths of her mother and brother? I don’t know. I thought about it. What I do know is that Arya Stark hadn’t been heard of in years, and within a few weeks some mysterious killer comes for House Frey, and the only survivor carries the message that ‘The North Remembers,’ and then Arya Stark returns home. It’d be a damned big coincidence.”

            Gendry processed that. He knew that the Hound was likely right, but he couldn’t fathom how the young, impulsive girl could have eradicated an entire house, with such little fanfare. But he knew how... brutal Arya could be. She had been a formidable fighter when he knew her – and then she had barely started training before Syrio had died. But who knew where she had been since then.

            Knowing Arya, he could guess that she had gone in search of a way to kill the rest of her list. What if she had found one? What if she had found someone to train her, to forge that raw talent and ferociousness into something worse, something lethal? How much of the Arya he knew would be left?

            Before Gendry could really come to any conclusion, Jon and the Queen had stopped at the front of their party. Gendry looked to the Hound in question, but the only answer he got was a grunted, “we’re here.”

            Gendry shifted in his saddle, the nerves coming back in full force. He allowed a few riders behind him to pass before he continued on to the Gates, to where Arya waited.

 

            Despite his preoccupation with the quickly approaching reunion, Gendry couldn’t help but take in Winterfell as he rode through. He had heard about it enough, Arya had barely stopped speaking about it when they travelled together. But this felt like a bastardization of what he had been told. The walls were scorched, buildings crumbled, and people scarce. And yet, despite this, he could see the magic of it. Winterfell had gone through hell, but it was still standing, eternal and strong. And those people he did see, they were resilient, proud. They were comfortable – they were home.

            The gates opened ahead, and he could see Jon’s dark hair and the Queen’s brilliantly light hair lead through. By the time he had made it through the gate, Jon had already dismounted and was hugging a boy in a wheelchair – Bran, Gendry concluded. Bran was with a rotund man and a young woman with brilliantly red hair. Sansa, he figured. Arya was nowhere to be seen.

            As he got off his horse, he allowed his eyes scan over the crowd that had gathered. Not finding her the first time, he searched the crowd again.

            He was surprised that he had actually been able to find her. She stood by the back wall, nearly melting into it. She had not noticed him. She was too busy scrutinizing those who accompanied her brother and the Queen at the front of the group.

            Gendry took advantage of what was sure to be only a momentary distraction to drink her in.

            She was taller, though not by much. Her hair was longer. She had no need to keep it short anymore; she had no need to disguise herself. She still wore clothes made for men, but no one seemed upset in the slightest. In fact, those near her were carefully skirting away and averting their eyes. She seemed nonplussed by it, although she had surely noted it. She had shaped more, having grown into a woman. Gendry pretended he didn’t notice. The biggest change, however, was in how she held herself. She no longer stood on the balls of her feet, or leaned forward, yearning for a reason to jump to action and prove herself. No, she was more sure of herself, and in complete control. She was relaxed, but Gendry knew she could jump to action at any moment.

            Gendry took an unsure step back as Arya’s back straightened, and he grew afraid that he had been seen. But her eyes were still not on him, instead locked with Jon Snow’s. She just stared at her brother for a moment, eyes momentarily flashing with emotion, but it was gone before Gendry could attempt to decipher it.

            Consciously or unconsciously, the crowd between the siblings parted. Arya moved slowly, at first. Each step seemed calculated, planned. She showed nothing of her thoughts. Jon, meanwhile, walked just as slowly, but had a tempest playing across his face.

            Gendry couldn’t hear, but he saw as Jon’s mouth opened, and Arya stopped. She stood, locked in place for a moment, before the mask came down. Whatever restraint she had before disappeared, and she ran at her brother, throwing her arms around him. After freezing a moment, Jon caught her, and buried his head in her hair.

            Gendry couldn’t help the grin that lit his face. Arya had dreamed of this moment as long as he had known her, likely longer. She had fought, killed, suffered, for this moment of unbridled joy.

            Arya’s sister had a similar smile on her face, Gendry noticed. Sansa was glad at her siblings reunion. Something must have changed between Arya and Sansa; from the way Arya spoke about her, this comradery was rare between the two. Bran, on the other hand, stared at the middle distance. Or he had been, but the moment Gendry turned his attention to Arya’s younger brother Bran’s eyes snapped to his own.

            Gendry took a step back. Bran’s gaze was somehow both vacant and scrutinizing.  It was ultimately wholly unsettling. With one, final grimace that might have been a smile, if Gendry were being generous, Bran looked away.

            In the time that he had been distracted, Arya had separated from her elder brother, and Jon was now speaking with Sansa.

            To his dismay, Arya was moving in his direction. He noticed, after a moment, that he still remained unseen, her target instead being the Hound. Arya planted herself in front of the man who was once her captor, and started talking, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Her back remained to Gendry, as the Hound picked up the conversation, a dull joy in his eyes that Gendry hadn’t seen before. Gendry cursed his luck that Sandor would have such an easy reunion, when his was sure to be painful.

            And then the Hound caught his eye. A small, sharp, smirk played on the Hound’s face, and Gendry knew his time to prepare was ending.

            Gendry began moving towards them, and he could just hear the Hound say, “go easy on him,” as he stopped.

            Gendry gathered the guilt, and the anxiety, and his nerves, and his pride, and crumpled it into one big ball in his gut, and then threw it all out. “‘Arry?”

            She stiffened at the name. He hadn’t meant to say ‘Arry, he had meant to say Arya, but it had just come out. The name he had met her by. And he realized that she was ‘Arry, to him, no matter her last name.

            She didn't answer, instead just remaining bolted in place. Safe, he realized, from whatever emotions he brought her.

            “‘Arry?” he tried again. The least he could do was try.

            Over her head, Gendry made eye contact with the Hound. The Hound likely saw the absolutely helpless look in Gendry’s eye, and rolled his eyes, saying “oh, for fuck’s sake,” before flipping Arya around, so that she had no choice but to look at him.

            She inspected him, for a moment. He felt incredibly small under her gaze. Her infuriatingly inscrutable gaze.

            Finally, she just says “Gendry,” and he unraveled. He released a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. All of the emotions that he had buried and denied and ignored came rushing to the surface, and he simultaneously wanted to cry and scream and laugh.

            And then Arya began to walk to him. He wanted to run, to find a forge, to be anywhere but this moment. But he also knew what would likely come after this moment. Unparalleled heartbreak or joy – either way it would be over. So, he stood his ground, just saying “‘Arry—"

            He was cut off by strong, muscled arms winding around his waist, and her head buried into his chest. He froze for a moment, arms hovering around her, before returning the hug. And he held her, like if he let go she would disappear to dust. He held her tighter than he’d held anyone, as if he could retroactively protect her from all of the pain from after they parted ways. “‘Arry—” he tried again, but she didn’t allow him to finish.

            She pulled her head back, looking him in the eye. “Arya. It’s Arya Stark. I don’t have to hide who I am now, and I don’t intend to do so again, not with my family.”

            He smiled, slightly. She had a home – a family. But he voiced what he had just been thinking, “You’ll always be ‘Arry to me.” Their eyes remained locked for a few moments more. And he just… He needed to say it. “I am so so—”

            She cut him off again, pulling him back towards her. “Shut up, you stupid bull.” He smiled at the name, and she continued, “I don’t want to hear it. I am so mad at you, so you don’t get to talk, at least not yet.”

            This was better than he had imagined. He didn’t care that she was angry, he loved that she was angry. She still cared, and she still wanted him in her life. And he still got that thrill from needling her, which is why he chose to say “as m’Lady commands.”

            She reeled her head back to glare at him, exclaiming, “Don’t call me m’Lady.”

            He smiled in earnest then. It was just wonderfully familiar.

            Oh, he was going to regret what he said next. “Would you prefer Princess?”

            “Gendry Waters, I already want to throttle you, don’t make me want to cut you open–”

            Gendry started laughing, despite the incredulous “Arya!” he heard Jon cry.

            Arya ignored him too, instead continuing with her speech. “I am Arya Stark. I am not a lady. I am not a princess. I am a fighter, and I am your equal. So, stop with all of that m’Lady business, Gendry Waters.”

            His laughter had died out quickly. So that was what this was about. She didn’t trust him not to leave again.

            In a split second, he decided how to respond.

            “Baratheon.” Was all he said.

            Arya’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” she whipped her head towards the Dragon Queen and then back to him. But she wasn’t surprised – she must have guessed. She was worried how the Queen would react. She didn’t want him taken, not again. He smiled lightly at the thought.

            “Baratheon. It’s Gendry Baratheon. Jon knows, and the Queen knows.” Gendry wasn’t actually sure she knew, but he doubted that Jon would keep a secret like that from her, especially considering their… encounter the other night. “I don’t care who my father was. I don’t want the throne. And I don’t care about who your father was, other than him being a good man. It doesn’t matter our family name. You’ll always be m’Lady.” He studied her eyes ferociously, begging her to hear what he was saying. _He wasn’t leaving._ Not again.

            She considered him for a few moments longer, before returning her head to his chest, muttering “stupid bull,” as she did so. He laughed, again, relief flooding through him.

            Jon broke them out of their reverie when he approached, asking “Gendry, we spent all that time across the wall and you failed to mention you knew Arya?”

            He flinched preemptively, before Arya slapped his arm, saying “you went behind the wall? Do you know how dangerous that is, Stupid?”

            Gendry looked between Arya and his King, and decided to answer the sibling he was most afraid of first. “I was protecting your brother!” He then turned to Jon. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure your sister would have wanted to talk about me, much less talk to me. We traveled together for a while, before her time with the Hound.”

            “It seems we have more to catch up on than I thought.” Jon finally decided, eyeing Arya curiously.

            “Wait until she tells you about Braavos. And the House of the Black and White. And don’t ask about the pies.” Sansa added, giving Arya a knowing smile. Arya glared in return.

            The glare was in jest, but Gendry could see the genuine anger, or even fear, in her eyes. She didn’t want them, or him to know about what had happened to her. And yet she had confided in Sansa.

            “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t spoken to the Dragon Queen much. From what he could tell, she seemed kind enough, but also bloody intimidating. “You spent time in Braavos? I don’t think we have officially met. I’m Daenerys Targaryen – but I’m sure you know that. At some point I’d love to talk about your time in Braavos.”

            Arya, of course, was unperturbed by the sheer power of the woman talking to her. Arya just studied the Queen for a moment, appraising her, before nodding.

            “Unfortunately,” the vacant voice of Bran disrupted the reunion, “we don’t have time for that. The Wall has fallen. Jon, Sam and I need to talk to you now. The Night King is coming, and he is coming on a dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! There we go, that is the end. If I feel like it i might add more scenes, but dont count on it. come talk to me, share your thoughts, dreams, scene ideas. I'm on tumblr, donkey-is-my-spirit-animal.tumblr.com


	4. After the Reunion

Jon Snow

 

         Jon absently heard Davos speaking to him. He knew it was likely important, everything seemed life or death these days, but Jon could scarcely bring himself to care. The pair walked through the halls, heading towards the castle forge. They needed to see how the dragon glass weapons were progressing before they met with Daenerys and Tyrion, after which they’d have more meetings with northern lords and small councils and Dothraki leaders.

         At this point, Jon was just thoroughly exhausted. His days were so completely packed that he rarely had time to use the bathroom, let alone actually think. And, most upsettingly, he hadn’t found ample time to truly talk to Arya.

         Sure, they would have meals together, but never with enough privacy to talk the way he wanted. He would see her around Winterfell at times, but never long enough to exchange more than a smile, and even that was usually strained. When he did see her, however, it was enough to worry him. Arya seemed detached from everything and everyone around, save maybe Gendry and Sansa. Her mind often seemed drawn elsewhere, and her eyes seemed much older and more tired than they should be.

         Jon had to squint when he finally reached the courtyard. The sun beat down, reflecting on the snow and temporarily blinding him. As he waited for the spots in his vision to clear, he noticed that Davos had stopped talking. As soon as he could see again, he turned to his friend, only to find Davos’ attention caught on a pair sparring in the yard.

         One of the pair was easily identifiable as Brienne of Tarth, her large frame and blonde hair immediately recognizable.

         If Jon were being honest with himself, he had identified the other fighter just as quickly. Part of his mind, the logical part, understood that his little sister was fighting, and fighting well, against one of the best knights in Westeros. But the part of his mind that tended to rule, the emotional part, refused to acknowledge it. He couldn’t comprehend what was before him. It was only when he saw the familiar hilt of Needle in the smaller fighter’s hand that he allowed himself to accept it. Arya was the one fighting Brienne, and she was doing it well. Too well.

         It was one thing to be a good fighter. Jon was a good fighter, Tormund was a good fighter, Brienne was a good fighter. But Arya – the fight was a dance for her. She moved in ways Jon could hardly fathom. This was the sort of fight that wasn’t learned through battle, no, she must have been trained to fight this way. She wouldn’t need to be hardened through wars as Jon was, because she already had the abilities. The discipline of her movements the day of their reunion suddenly fit, it married with this fighting ability to draw an answer that led to more questions. She had been formally, tediously trained, perhaps more so than Jon had. But how? And by whom? This level of skill couldn’t be acquired easily, or painlessly.

         All thoughts of his meeting with Gendry left his head as Jon watched the sparring session. It felt sacred, intimate in a way Jon struggled to understand. The two fighting styles were so different, struggling for dominance.

         Jon was taken from his reverie by Davos shaking his shoulder. By the look on the older man’s face, it was not the first time he had tried to get Jon’s attention. Jon only looked at Davos for a moment, before turning back to his sister.

         “That… is something else,” Davos said, eyes drifting back to the fight in front of them.

         All Jon could do was nod.

         “We should go meet Gendry,” Davos said after another moment, an unspoken question in his voice.

         “I need to see this. I need –” He needed to know. What Arya could do, what she had learned, what she had done with the abilities.

         “We don’t have time, milord.” Davos replied, rationally.

         But Jon wasn’t exactly rational at the moment, “then we will make time, Davos!” he snapped. Jon took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He looked to Davos as he said, “I’m sorry. Will you please tell Gendry that I will meet him later?” He didn’t wait for a response before turning back to his sister and Brienne.

         He heard Davos give a disgruntled sigh before shuffling off to the forge.

         A few minutes later, he heard Davos return, but when he looked he saw that Gendry joined him. The smith didn’t look to Jon, barely even acknowledged him, instead focusing on Arya.

         Gendry looked as troubled as Jon felt, if not more so. Jon’s eyebrows knitted in confusion, but before he could think on it the crowd before him shifted. Jon’s eyes found the battle again, only to see Brienne holding Oathkeeper poised at Arya’s neck. The panic only lasted for a moment, before Jon saw that Arya was holding that wicked dagger to Brienne’s throat as well. A draw.

         Both women stepped back, removing their blades and grinning at each other.

         Jon took the moment to step through the crowd to approach his sister.

         The grin on Arya’s face dropped the moment she saw him, something like fear, or embarrassment flashing upon it before that damned emotionless mask took over. Brienne’s grin, on the other hand, just shifted to reflect something like pride and protectiveness. She moved slightly, likely unintentionally, in an offensive position near in front of Arya.

         But Arya just straightened her back, and joined her hands behind her as he stopped in front of her.

         “Brother,” was all she said in greeting.

         “We need to talk.” His voice was gruff, gruffer than usual, but Arya just nodded.

 

Arya Stark

 

         The days since Jon’s return had been both endlessly busy, and hopelessly empty. There was too much to do, and so little she could help with. After the first night of their reunion, Gendry went straight to the forge, and Jon had a seemingly infinite number of meetings. Everyone always had something they needed to do, which was fine. Arya was more than capable of being on her own; she had been for years. No, the issue Arya faced was quite different. While she could handle being alone, Arya had issues being stagnant, without purpose. Arya always had difficulty staying still for too long, and as the rage within her grew over the past years, that difficulty gained strength and warped. She needed a target, an aim.

         Before Jon had come home, Arya had a purpose. Sansa, as gifted as a politician and leader as she was, did not have the muscle to enforce it. So, Arya had provided the bite to Sansa’s bark. Jon didn’t need Arya’s protection, not in the way that Sansa had. No, Jon was perfectly capable of slitting throats himself if the occasion called for it.

         So, what was her role in this new world of Jon being the Warden of the North and Sansa being the Lady of Winterfell? Why was Arya here, when she had so much to do in the South?

         It didn’t help that Jon seemed to still see her as the young girl he had known. She would go to follow her siblings into meetings, and Jon would stop her, claiming she didn’t need to be present. Sansa didn’t advocate for her sister; instead she would just give Arya a helpless, pleading look. Arya listened to Jon, not out of complacency, but due to the knowledge of the careful precipice they balanced on. If she did anything to make her brother seem weak, which she was more than capable of doing, they could lose the support of the Northern lords that was so vital to their success.

         She knew where her power lay; it was with Needle, and they didn’t need that yet. But she couldn’t help but wish to do more. She was tired of waiting.

         The more time that Arya spent alone, doing nothing but training and occasionally spying on those she deemed untrustworthy, the more the urge grew to leave for King’s Landing. To finally claim the last names on her list. Maybe then, she would finally find peace, she could finally stop moving, she might finally be able to reclaim Arya Stark.

         But she knew she couldn’t. She hadn’t become that desperate, at least not yet. So, instead, she continued the carefully curated routine she had adopted in the weeks since she had arrived in Winterfell.

         She woke up before dawn, and ran through routines with needle, never allowing her abilities to dull. She would have breakfast with her family, although never privately. They were usually accompanied by Ser Davos, the Dragon Queen, and the Imp, at least. The topic of conversation was typically mindless, either something about the grain stores or other logistics of Winterfell. She rarely spoke during these meals. After that, she’d return to the yard to practice. She would usually spar with Brienne for an hour or two, while Podrick attended to some of his duties as a squire. Then Brienne would typically meet with Sansa, while Arya practiced with Pod. He seemed to have liked having her as a teacher, due to her being closer in size to him than Brienne. Gradually, people had begun to join these lessons, mostly younger children. So, she trained them.

         She started every day by asking what they would say to the God of Death.

         Not today.

         After her class was lunch, which she usually spent in the forge with Gendry. They talked about everything and nothing. She carefully avoided mentioning what happened after she left the Twins, not wanting to see the pitying look she was sure he would give. She would stay for an hour or two after lunch just to keep him company, before she departed to the Godswood to see Bran. She would sit with her brother for an hour, finding solace in his silence.

         She then returned to the yard to continue practicing routines until supper, which often went the same as breakfast, except everyone pretended they didn’t see Jon sneak off with the Dragon Queen at the end of the meal. She often spent her evenings with Sansa, having found a comradery and understanding with her sister that quieted the tempest within her. These nights with Sansa would remind Arya why she couldn’t leave for King’s Landing. What she would risk if she did so. And then she would fall into a fitful sleep, before waking up before dawn to repeat the day over again.

         The monotony had quickly grown boring.

         At the moment, Arya was in the yard, sparring with Brienne. It was one of her favorite activities of the day. Arya never felt the need to hold back with Brienne, during their sessions Arya truly exerted herself.

         Today’s fight was particularly grueling. Arya’s back was already soaked through from landing on it in the snow twice, but she took solace in noting the sweat lining Brienne’s brow. Brienne was giving it her all as well.

         As usual, a small crowd had formed around the battle between the Lady Night and the Faceless Man, not that they knew what that was, but Arya was too enthralled by the fight to notice a new face among the familiar ones.

 

         By the end of the fight, she had felt as though she was glowing, the adrenaline of the fight leaving her with her favorite kind of high. She knew Brienne felt it too, as they grinned at each other. The time spent fighting with Brienne, it made the Arya almost feel like they were friends. The concept felt foreign to Arya.

         Suddenly, she realized that the crowd was different, withdrawn. She looked away from Brienne, eyes immediately finding Jon walking towards her.

         He saw. He saw her fight, he knows who she is, what she is, what she can do, what she has done. Arya stopped breathing for a moment, before retreating to that familiar wash of nothingness of the Faceless Men. She could feel as Brienne shifted next to her, almost protectively. If she hadn’t been wearing her mask, not a physical one, but emotional, she would have smiled at the gesture.

         But she was wearing a mask. She almost always wore a mask. She either wore the mask of Arya Stark to hide the emptiness she felt within, or she wore the mask of No One to shield herself from what she felt. She no longer knew how to be who she was, or who she was supposed to be.

         But Arya just straightened her back, joining her hands behind her habitually. She hardly meant to do it anymore; it was simply a leftover reflex from serving at the House of Black and White.

         Jon came to stop in front of her.

         “Brother.” _I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to see that, I don’t want you to know that,_ she wanted to say. But she kept it hidden. She kept everything hidden.

         “We need to talk,” was all he said in return. Arya swallowed but nodded, eyes leaving Jon, only to see Gendry behind him. He had seen as well. Her gaze stuck on his face. He looked stricken. He looked horrified. She had lost him, lost them both. Two of the most important people in her life, lost because of the brutality she was capable of.

         She couldn’t breathe for a moment. But, later. If she could fight the Waif with a mortal wound, she could face her brother. The mask she wore never faltered as she led Jon to the Godswood.

 

         For once, Bran didn’t sit by the great tree, looking to the past and to the future. Arya missed him, or who he used to be

         Arya stopped by the tree, before pivoting to Jon, and said as casually as she could, “what would you like to talk about?”

         “Arya,” Jon said, almost pleading.

         Arya just raised one eyebrow in response.

         Jon seemed to be looking for the words. When he couldn’t find them, he looked at the Godswood around them, “I haven’t been here since I’ve been back.”

         Arya just nodded.

         Jon took a seat as he continued, “Father used to come here before every execution. He’d pray to the Gods. I used to watch him sometimes. I wondered how he could have so much to think about.”

         Arya murmured, unintentionally “there is only one God.”

         Jon’s head snapped to her. She hadn’t meant to say that. It had been a reflex for so long.

         The Many Faced God was a conversation she was not ready for. A truth she wouldn’t face right now. So, she offered another truth instead. “Father knew about Needle.”

         Jon was surprised, “he did?”

         “He did.” Arya confirmed. Eyes closing at the memories that washed over her. “He hired a teacher for me, in King’s Landing. Syrio Forel. He taught me the art of water dancing. At least, he started to.”

         “What happened?” Jon asked. Arya could feel her face harden at the question. She hadn’t realized that it had softened at the thought of her old teacher, her friend.

         “He died. Same day as father. He died protecting me.” Arya knew her words were cold, and her voice matched it. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to feel that again.

         “Father never stopped you from being you,” Jon said after a moment. Arya inclined her head slightly in a nod. “Please, Arya, I just want to know you.”

         “Jon—” Arya started.

         “Arya, I see these amazing, likely terrible things you can do. I see how you walk around the castle, almost a ghost. I just want to understand.”

         Arya breathed in deeply. She wanted to know him, too. She wanted him to understand, she wanted someone to understand. She needed someone to understand the weapon she had forged herself into, and not judge her for it. Jon was the most likely. He had always understood her best as a child. And yet… “Promise me you won’t look at me any different.”

         “Arya,” Jon started, gently, “I would never… I could never –”

         “I have done things, Jon. And I don’t regret them. They kept me alive, and they were for our family. But they aren’t pretty.”

         Jon swallowed. “Ok. I promise.”

         Arya nodded, she could do this. She could tell Jon. She took a deep breath, and started with King’s Landing.

 

Jon Snow

 

         She told him of the road to King’s Landing. Of Nymeria’s departure, and Lady’s murder. She told him of Mycah, and the Hound killing him. She told him of Syrio Forel.

         Jon felt like he’d cry as he heard her speak of watching their father murdered. He was eternally grateful to Yoren for shielding her eyes. He briefly contemplated finding him, thanking him. Soon he learned that it wouldn’t be possible. But Arya still portrayed no emotion. She was detached from her own story.

         Arya told him of killing a farm boy, her first kill, and escaping King’s Landing with Yoren and Gendry, as well as Hot Pie and Lommy.

         He choked when he heard that she was headed to the wall, to him, and he couldn’t help but smile as he heard of her growing friendships with Gendry, Hot Pie, and Lommy. He didn’t know what to make of Yoren’s advice of making a list of the names she wanted to kill, but he remained silent.

         He didn’t understand the importance of her saving three prisoners. He said as much, to which Arya just told him to wait.

         His blood turned to ice when he learned she spent time at Harrenhal. He had heard rumors of the brutality.

         The feelings were complicated and confusing when he learned that Tywin Lannister had been his sister’s savior. That he had seen her as a girl, and treated her decently. All he could do was thank whatever Gods were out there that he didn’t realize the identity of his cupbearer.

         Then the prisoner returned, and helped her escape with Hot Pie and Gendry. Lommy had already died by that point in her story.

         “I should thank that Jaqen H’ghar.” Jon said after hearing of the escape.

         Arya smiled drily. “I’d wait until the end of the story to decide on that, brother. That wasn’t the last I saw of Jaqen.”

         At the cold look in his sister’s eye, Jon fell silent.

         Arya continued with her story. She told of meeting the Brotherhood, parting ways with Hot Pie, running into the Hound, meeting the Red Woman.

         Her face turned vicious as she told of how the Brotherhood sold Gendry to the Red Woman. She had skirted around the topic of when, exactly, Gendry had joined the Brotherhood.

         He didn’t know what to think of Arya being captured and traveling with the Hound. He knew the man as he was now, not as he had been then.

         Arya’s voice grew quiet. The emotionless look left her eyes. Pain, hard and real, too much for a girl of her age, showed on her face.

         “I snuck into the Twins. It was during the wedding, Robb’s and the foreigner. I never even learned her name. But the Freys –”

         Jon knew this story. It had haunted him. “Arya, you don’t –”

         His sister looked at him, determination in her eyes.

         Those piercing grey eyes, the same as his own, stayed locked on his while she continued to speak. “The Freys betrayed the North. After, I suppose, Robb betrayed his agreement with them. The Hound found me before I was caught, or before I could help. He knocked me out. Whether it was to save me, or to save his ransom, I don’t know. But I woke up before we were out. And that is when I saw Grey Wind’s head sewn to Robb’s body. And that is when I broke.”

         Jon’s mouth was dry. The sound of wind filled his ears. He had never heard the specifics of the Red Wedding, as people called it. But this, the fact that Arya had been there, had seen that... She had only been thirteen. But Arya was still looking at him, the pain on her face replaced by curiosity.

         “I am so sorry, Arya. That you had… You should have never had to see that. If I had been able to I would have come to you. I almost did, after father died. I should have been there.”

         “I’m glad you weren’t.” Arya’s voice was cold. “If you were there you would have done something foolhardy and gotten yourself killed as well.”

         Jon forced a laugh, “that is true. Do you want to continue? We can stop there.”

         “No.” Arya was finite. “I want to do this now and then be done with it.”

         So, Arya continued, words lighter than before. As if that had been the thing she had been dreading.

         She told him of continuing to travel with the Hound, getting Needle back. She told him of her Aunt Lysa’s death just before she made it. He felt sick when she spoke of the humor she found in the situation.

         Her voice was different when she spoke of Brienne finding her. She sounded almost awed. He could hear the tinge of regret in her voice at not going with Brienne, even if she claimed it was for the best.

         Jon found some solace in the fact that she chose to spare the Hound.

         But then she started to detach again. She seemed distant from the story of her arrival in Braavos, of waiting outside the House of Black and White, of meeting Jaqen H’ghar once again. She looked at him with pride as she spoke of her choice to hide Needle as opposed to getting rid of it. But that pride turned icy when she spoke of Ilyn Payne. Jon was unable to find much sympathy for the man when he heard of his actions, and his treatment of young girls.

         His grip on Long Claw tightened when she spoke of her blindness, a movement of comfort, even though she said it with the cavalier attitude of someone who had stubbed their toe. It only grew tighter as she told him of training with the Waif, and of their final fight.

         But then the story of Braavos ended. And she had rejected No One. She had come home.

         She had come home and killed the Freys. And there was no remorse in her eyes. Just hesitancy at his reaction. He didn’t know how to feel. They had deserved it, of that he was sure, but the fact that she was the one to enact revenge left him with a pit in his stomach.

         Arya told him of running into Hot Pie on her way to kill Cersei. Of coming home. Of killing Little Finger.

         And then she grew quiet, and he did not know what to say. So, they sat, Jon absorbing, Arya waiting.

         Until she seemed to not be able to take it anymore. Her impatience lasted much longer than it used to. Likely because of the time with the Faceless Men. Seven Hells, he had heard ghost stories of the Faceless Men during his time at the wall. The fact that Arya had trained with them, had come out of it alive…

        “Do you hate me?” she asked, voice quiet.

         “No, Arya, I could never.” He answered quickly. “I just — I just wish I could have been there.”

         Arya nodded, understanding.

         “This thing with the faces. I want to see it.” He stood suddenly, but Arya didn’t even flinch.

         Arya smiled slyly, “what, you come here with two dragons and fought whatever it is that the White Walkers are, and this is what you don’t believe?” but hidden behind the smile, Jon could see dread in her eyes.

         So, he just said, “please, Arya.”

         Arya hesitated, but nodded after a moment, before promptly turning and walking away.

         Jon supposed he needed to get one of her faces. Rubbing his face with one of his gloved hands, Jon sat back down.

         A few moments later, a sound brought his head out of his hands. He turned to the forest behind him to see Ghost stalking out.

         His direwolf had been scarce since Jon returned to Winterfell. Jon secretly believed that Ghost was offended that Jon had left him behind when he went to Dragonstone.

         Jon remained seated, letting the big white wolf come to him. Ghost did approach, slowly at first before laying down next to where Jon sat. Jon scratched the head of his oldest and most loyal companion.

         “I saw Nymeria, you know.” But it wasn’t Arya’s voice that spoke. Jon stood abruptly, Ghost standing with him. He turned, and had no words to express the surprise he felt when he saw Little Finger standing by the entrance of the Godswood.

         Jon’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and Ghost growled next to him.

         He knew it was Arya. It had to be Arya. But he hadn’t expected her to take this face. And the disguise was so convincing that it tricked even Ghost.

         Then it got more unbelievable. Little Finger – Arya grabbed some invisible seam at the bottom of her – his – their chin, and lifted one face from the other.

         And there she stood. His littlest sister, in the clothes of a man she killed, his face dangling from her hand.

         She was nervous. She didn’t show it, she had no tells, but he knew. Despite the blank face, he knew. She was still his sister.

         “Ok.” He said.

         “Ok?”

         “Ok. Thank you for showing me.” Arya took a deep breath, and he walked to her. Jon took his youngest sisters face in his hands. “Ok. You are still my sister, Arya. No matter what you can do. Nothing will ever change that.”

         Tears welled in her eyes, and before he could process it she wrapped her arms around him, holding him in a tight hug, which he gladly returned. Tighter than the one when they first reunited, she hadn’t been using her full strength.

         After a few moments, he pulled away. His hands found her cheeks once again, and he kissed her forehead. When he pulled back, she smiled up at him. A true smile, the first since he had returned home.

         “I think it’s impressive that you went through all of that and remained Arya Stark.” He was quiet, gentle.

         Arya looked away, eyes misty. “I feel so far away at time. Untethered.” She looked to him, “it helps being home with you, and with Sansa.”

         Jon smiled.

         “How can I help protect our home.” Arya wasn’t asking for permission.

         “Arya, you don’t have to—”

         “Don’t try to protect me, Jon. I have been protecting myself for too long, I don’t know how to let someone else do it. If you try to make me stay at home, I will wear a face and get out. I won’t sit still, I won’t be passive. Not any longer.”

         A woman stood before Jon. No longer an impulsive young girl, but an adult. Rational, capable. Still, he was hesitant.

         She must have seen it on his face, because she said “let me help. Let me fight.”

         Jon sighed. “I will see what I can do.”

         Arya nodded, satisfied.

         “You should talk to Gendry,” Jon said as an afterthought. Arya looked confused. “He seems important to you. He deserves to understand, you deserve to have him understand.”

         Arya turned solemn, and just nodded, but she didn’t move. Instead, she sat down by the great tree. Jon sat next to her, and started talking. Of beyond the wall, of Ygritte, of everything. And they were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably do a Gendry Arya talking scene after this. What he was thinking of during the fight scene, that kinda stuff. comment with prompts!


	5. The Bull and the Wolf

            Arya felt lighter. She felt warm and whole and comfortable in a way that she hadn’t experienced since before her father’s death.

            Not that she had ever forgotten, but Arya had been once again reminded why Jon had long been her favorite sibling. No matter the distance between them, or the time spent apart, he always understood her, even the darkest, most sinister parts.

            She and Jon had talked until the sun got low and Jon had to be at dinner. He was still the face of Winterfell and he wouldn’t leave his queen to the wolves.

            That had been an unexpected surprise – the soft look in Jon’s eye as he spoke about the Dragon Queen. He, of course, had adamantly refuted that anything was going on between them when Arya asked, but she knew him better. And, while she had yet to come to a conclusion on the alignment of Daenerys Targaryen, Arya couldn’t help but be thankful that she had made her brother happy.

            It would be a shame if Arya had to kill her after all of this was over.

            But the Dragon Queen wasn’t Jon’s first love – he would move on if need be. Arya wished that she had gotten a chance to know Ygritte. Jon spoke of her wistfully, if briefly. The pain on his face allowed Arya to gather what had happened, even if he hadn’t been able to tell Arya himself.

            Arya had laughed, loose and carefree as her brother regaled her with stories of how she and Ygritte would have gotten along. A free woman, that was what Jon had said. Even as a prisoner, a free woman.

            Jon, of course, had trouble understanding. He was clueless, and she had told him as much. He had just laughed, informing Arya that Ygritte had said something similar.

            Now, as she wandered the grounds of Winterfell, snow chilling her face, Arya couldn’t help but question the last time she had been free. For so long, she had been bound by desire for revenge. Every move she had made for the past few years was to avenge her family. Going to Braavos to get the training she needed to hurt those who had hurt her, leaving Braavos to finally cross names off of her list. Until she returned to Winterfell, she hadn’t acted freely since she allowed the Hound to live.

            She had begun to lose herself long before she became No One.

            As she often did, Arya soon found herself staring into the blank, stony eyes of her father. The statue itself was wrong – it was at the same time too pretty and too stern. It held none of the kindness of her father, and none of the grit. It was a mere shadow of the man he had been.

            And yet it was better than nothing, which was what Robb had gotten.

            Robb Stark, the forgotten King of the North. The Young Wolf. The King Who Lost the North. It had taken all the restraint Arya possessed to not kill the man she had heard say that.

            All of the atrocities she had seen, and Robb still stung the most. Robb had been so much like her father, bound by honor and justice. He was so quintessentially _good._ And it had gotten him killed. Why had Arya, who had done monstrous things, survived, while her parents, and Robb, and _Rickon_ had died?

            Arya still awoke from visions of Grey Wind on Robb’s body. It was a sight that would haunt her until the day she died. However soon that may be.

            Robb Stark deserved more than just a disgraced name and no statue. Robb felt so unfinished, with his foreign wife and unborn babe.

            He had been a good King. A _worthy_ King. Someone that people had been proud to fight for, just like Jon after him.

            Arya blinked twice, stepping away from her father’s statue. She left the crypts hastily, a destination in mind. When she hit the cool air of the courtyard, she realized that she had been wandering longer than she had thought – it had reached the small hours of the morning.

            But she saw a light through the window, and banging in the quiet night, so she continued on. Snowflakes landed in her eyelashes and wet her hair, but she paid it no mind.

            Gendry was seated in the forge, back to the door. He had a hammer in his hand, not the gaudy, Warhammer that she had seen him wield initially. This time it was a blacksmith’s hammer, and he was working at the dark metal of the dragon glass shipment.

            Arya waited a moment, grounding herself, as she took in the sight of him.

            “Why Jon?”

            Arya knew he heard her. His shoulders tensed, and the hammer faltered in midair. He seemed to take a deep breath before turning towards her.

            His face was covered in soot and grime, and he looked unspeakably tired as he took her in.

            “What?” he finally said, after a minute of silence.

            “You heard me, Gendry,” his name felt foreign in her mouth. “Why Jon?”

            He rolled his shoulders. “Would you rather I make swords for Cersei,” Gendry cracked a crooked smile, “or the Night King?”

            She said nothing, only waited.

            He deflated slightly. “I needed to help. I couldn’t sit at my forge, pretending there wasn’t a war around me anymore.”

            Arya still didn’t say anything, just looked away from him. She turned to the swords that lined the walls, fraught for a distraction.

            “Arya, what do you want me to say? I came to help! I needed to help. I was tired of not doing anything.” Desperation colored his voice, but she didn’t care. “Arya—”

            “Why Jon and not Robb?” she spun to Gendry as she spoke.

            Arya saw him pale behind the soot on his face.

            “Arya—” he tried again, softer, but she cut him off.

            “Why? I’m serious Gendry, why? I am glad you’re working for Jon, that you are finally doing something for someone other than yourself, but why not Robb. His cause was just as noble as Jon’s. You could have helped just as much with Robb. But you chose not to. You chose to leave, to run away. So why Jon?”

            Gendry sighed, slouching down on one the stools that lined the forge.

            “It wasn’t Jon over Robb, you have to know that Arya.” He gestured to a seat near him, but Arya remained where she was. “It wasn’t even really about Jon, if I’m being honest. It was about me finally doing something other than hitting metal. And I was doing it for the Lannisters. The family that killed my father. That killed _your_ father. I was going mad. But there was nothing I could do, so when Davos found me, it was finally the chance to _do_ something. And I couldn’t let anymore –” he trailed off, picking up a dagger from the table and examining it.

            “What? You couldn’t let anyone what, Gendry?” he didn’t say anything. “You don’t get to go silent now. You don’t get to disappear for fucking years and then just not explain why you suddenly decide –"

            He threw the dagger down, so it stuck point down in the table. “I couldn’t let anyone else die, Arya! I thought I killed you. And now I see these things you do and I can’t help but –”

            “Stop.” Her voice was quiet, but he stopped speaking abruptly. She knew she must be a sight to behold. Cold flooded her veins.

            “You _left_ Gendry. You left me. And yes, the Red Woman took you, and I will kill her for that, but _you left me._ You were leaving either way, with or without the Red Woman. You don’t get to judge what I did after you left me. I survived. I did what I had to, alone. I watched as the Freys and Lannisters paraded my brother’s dead body around with his wolf’s head sewn on. I was stabbed. I was blinded. And I have killed. But I survived. And everything that happened after the Twins? I’d do it again. I’d become what I am now, again. Despite getting stabbed and blinded and every other shit thing I have faced, because _I_ killed the Freys for what they did to Robb. _I_ killed Meryn Trant for killing my friend. _I_ killed Littlefinger for getting my father murdered. And _I_ will kill The Mountain for Harrenhal. And _I_ will kill Cersei Lannister for my father. And I will do it with a smile on my face because they deserve it. And you get absolutely no say in it, because you left, and because I am grown. I might be young, but I have seen more than men four times my age. So you don’t get to judge my choices.”

            If Gendry was the fire of the forge when he spoke, Arya was the icy wind and snow that howled outside. And, right now, there was more reason to be scared of winds of the North than the fire of the South.

            Gendry had stood at some point while Arya had spoken, her voice quiet but laced with venom, her words sharp as the blades she wore.

            He was staring at her. Arya’s face was blank, but her eyes were vicious. Gendry opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

            She didn’t know why she was still there. She didn’t know what she expected Gendry to say. But she wanted him to say something. She wanted to not feel like this, like she was exposed, vulnerable. She didn’t want to feel anything.

            Arya closed her eyes for a moment, and when they opened again, they were void of any emotion.

            “Goodbye, Gendry. I’ll see you on the battlefield.” Arya sharply turned, and left the forge.

            The chill of winter felt rejuvenating as Arya stepped into the cold. But her mind was blank. She felt drained, empty, wrung out. She felt tired. She felt young and so very old.

            She crossed the courtyard as she heard a crash behind her. From the forge, she could hear Gendry curse, but she didn’t look back. She tuned out any noise besides the roar of the wind. She didn’t falter. She kept walking, not heading in any particular direction, just away.

            Her breathing had become steady again when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Without thinking, Arya pulled her dagger out and had it at the person’s neck.

            She wasn’t surprised that it was Gendry. He immediately held his hands up, showing he meant no harm. Arya noted his palm was bleeding. While holding a dagger to him had felt immensely satisfying, she still dropped her hand, returning the dagger to the sheath. Without a word, Arya turned around, and made to leave again.

            “'Milady' is a reminder for me!” Gendry called after her.

            At his words, Arya stopped, confused. Of all the things she had thought he might say, she hadn’t expected an explanation for her least favorite nickname. She hadn’t even thought there was an explanation, beyond him liking to needle her. Curious, despite herself, Arya pivoted back towards him. “What?”

            Gendry released a breath, seemingly glad he had her attention. He crossed to her, until he was about two feet away. “‘Milady’ was a reminder for me. It was a reminder that you were a highborn lady, and I was a bastard blacksmith. And that ladies and blacksmiths don’t get to be friends, or have any sort of relationship.”

            “Gendry, are you daft? I told you I couldn’t care less about that?” Arya felt her eyebrows knit in confusion.

            He smiled at the involuntary movement. “I know that, Arya, but the world does care. Your brother would have cared. And I cared. I was young, and far more immature than you, and I cared, and I was scared. And I couldn’t go with you because I thought I knew what would have happened. You wouldn’t have meant to, but life would have gotten away. And I would have ended up alone, again. At least with the Brotherhood I wouldn’t have had to be alone.”

            Gendry took another step towards her, and Arya fought the overwhelming urge to run away. She wanted to look away from him, but she refused to give him the upper hand, so she kept eye contact, not even blinking.

            “As for judging you, Arya, I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I just –” Gendry huffed, seemingly at a loss for words.

            The anger that had been so vast before had dwindled significantly, so Arya allowed him the time to think of what he wanted to say. She wanted to know what he had to say.

            Arya palmed Needle as she waited, the familiar steel calming her, the hilt perfectly fitting her hand, until Gendry spoke again.

            “I would have followed you to the ends of the world, you know? If life was different, and we were different people. I would have followed you to The Twins, and to Braavos, and to killing the Freys. And I knew that I would, which is why I couldn’t. You were the one who saved my life, time and time again. And I would never judge you for what you did to survive. I am eternally grateful that you survived, no matter the circumstances. I couldn’t care less about who you’ve become, because I am on your side first, Arya Stark. Not Jon Snow’s, not Daenerys Targaryen’s, not the Brotherhood’s, yours. I’m upset that you had to do all of it alone. Even when I thought you had died at the Twins, I wished I could have been there. I never wanted you to be alone, Arya. Do you understand?”

            And she did, at least theoretically. She could understand how someone could care that much. She cared that much about her family. But she had a hard time coming to terms with someone caring that much about her.

            But this was Gendry. She had never understood how he had left her after all they had been through. So Arya nodded, still mute. Too overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotions, some which she hadn’t experienced in years, that washed over her.

            Gendry smiled, a full, breathtaking smile that she had only seen a handful of times before.

            “Good,” he said, relaxing, “because good luck getting rid of me this time. I know you have people to kill, and I’m not going to get in the way of that. But I’m not leaving again. I’ll hold your extra weapons as you go and kill Cersei, but I will be there.”

            Embarrassingly, that was when tears pricked her eyes.

            Gendry, uncharacteristically observant, noticed. He began to move towards Arya, arms opening it was likely to be a hug, when he paused. But, when Arya did nothing to stop him, he continued, wrapping her in his arms. Arya didn’t sob, she didn’t make noise, she just allowed the tears to fall silently and cleanly, as she slowly snaked her arms around Gendry in return.

            They stayed like that for a few moments, standing alone in the snow as the world slept around them. Eventually, they pulled their heads away from each other, bodies still pressed to one another.

            And Arya had no idea what to do next.

            Thankfully, Gendry did. He stepped away, but grabbed Arya’s hand, with his own, hissing as he put pressure on the cut.

            “What happened?” Arya asked, finally finding her voice again.

            “I may have, in my haste to catch up with you, grabbed the wrong side of a sword that was in my way.” Gendry sounded sheepish.

            Arya smacked his arm, “Well, that was stupid, Stupid!”

            “Yea, well, you call me that for a reason. Come on, lets go back to the forge, I’m freezing my balls off out here.” Arya finally noticed his lack of coat, and the shivers that ran through his body.

            She smiled, “what? This? This is nothing! This is barely a flurry!” She laughed.

            “Yea, well you might be a wolf of Winterfell, but I'm a Southern bull, so let’s go.” Gendry grinned at her, as he led her back to the forge with his good hand.

            “Is that really why you call me milady?” Arya asked after a moment, a joking lilt laced with genuine curiosity in her voice.

            “Yes,” Gendry answered. “Well,” he relented, at the sharp look from Arya, “mostly. It didn’t hurt that you hated it.”

            “Ass,” Arya said, hitting him again.

            “Yea, you missed it.” Gendry grinned cheekily, leading her to a seat once they entered the smithy.

            “Yea, well, I can be a bit stupid, too.” She smiled back. Then, with a start, she remembered, “Oh! I didn’t tell you! I saw Hot Pie!”

            “You could’ve led with that! Where?” Gendry perked up at the news.

            “At the inn, right where we left him. Nothing had changed.”

            But it had. Everything had changed. But Arya was starting to be okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I know it has been a while, but I hope you enjoy! Comments make me smile :)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm considering adding Gendry's POV and Jon's POV. depends how this does.


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